


The Shoreline

by SomeBratInAMask



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-03-09 15:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13484439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeBratInAMask/pseuds/SomeBratInAMask
Summary: Nightwing’s voice came from above his head. “That's a nasty habit.” Nightwing was crouched on the roof of Gotham Auto.Jason glanced at the stub of his cigarette then back up at Nightwing. “I've got a few of those,” Jason agreed.Tides are always chasing the shoreline.





	1. Warmth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pentapus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentapus/gifts).



> Once upon a time, over a year ago, a very naughty child agreed to an exchange with Pentapoda. This is her redemption. 
> 
> Definitely a WIP, but hey, stick around for the ride?
> 
> For context's sake, Jason is 15 and Dick is 18 in this chapter.

“Robin to Nightwing; I found the girl. Permission to move in?”

_“Permission denied. What’s your 20?”_

Jason peered through the slats in the air vents. The room was so dark that he hadn’t even noticed Yolanda Prim for a few good seconds. His eyes needed to adjust, but once they did, he could see her: wrists bound above her, tied to a support beam, skin all cut up and bruised. “I’m in the vents. It’s, uh, a basement. But a furnished one. It’s got a pool table and everything.”

_“Is it just the girl there? No one else?”_

“Just the girl. Lights are all off. Doubt anyone’s hiding in the shadows. Can’t shoot pool in the dark.” Dick was silent on the other end. Jason was getting antsy waiting, but being Robin meant learning patience. Still, he felt compelled to fill the silence. “Weird place to keep a hostage. Was expecting a creepy dungeon. Not a mancave.”

Dick, thankfully, was a chattier companion than Bruce. _“It’s an entertainment room. She’s the entertainment.”_

“Yikes.” Jason surveyed the basement while he waited for Dick’s call. There was an old-timey pinball machine in the corner, not far off from the mini fridge and predictable framed painting of dogs playing poker. Cheap-looking rugs covered the cold cement floor haphazardly. Inches above it were Yolanda’s bare feet, tied at the ankles with rope. Her head hung limply down, dark hair curtaining her face. “Hey, can I go in now?” Jason pestered.

Dick’s response didn’t come right away. Jason was about to say _fuck it_ and jump down when his earpiece came to life. _“Hold on, Little Wing,”_ said Dick.

Jason’s exasperation flared. “Oh, come _on!”_

Below him, Yolanda jerked into alertness. She tried to shout something that was muffled by duct tape.

 _Fuck,_ Jason thought. And then, _Fuck it._ He snatched a laser from his belt and melted the screws, prying off the cover quickly. “Going in,” he announced.

_“What? Are you kidding me right now?”_

Jason landed quietly, if not gracefully. A slight sting ran up his legs and back. “You expect me to just chill in the vents all night? You’re the one who must be kidding.” Jason strode toward Yolanda, accessing his blade to the cut her ropes.

Jason listened to Dick’s lecture as he worked at Yolanda’s restraints. He avoided meeting her gaze, which was wide-eyed and searching _._

 _“I am the opposite of kidding. I am — adulting. You_ always _wait for instruction, okay?”_

“You got my back, right? No psychos are on their way to the basement to get me?”

_“I just finished taking out the last of the property’s occupants. But if you were even a second too early in calling that shot — ”_

“Then you would’ve still had my back,” Jason completed. The frayed remains of the rope snapped. Yolanda’s hands fell to her sides. “Hold on to that pole,” he ordered. She followed suit, so he started working on her feet.

 _“How is she doing?”_ Dick asked, digging the blade in.

“Yolanda?” Jason clarified.

_“Who else?”_

“I mean, I’d ask her, but her mouth is taped up.” Not that Jason would have to ask to know she was doing pretty fucking terrible. Closer up, he could see burn marks and giant welts.

 _“You didn’t take the tape off?”_ Dick’s voice was accusing.

“Uh, no?” replied Jason.

_“You desperately need to work on your bedside manner. Have you said a word to her?”_

“Told her to hold herself up on the pole.”

“To _her, not_ at _her.”_

It hadn’t occurred to Jason that saving her life wasn’t enough, that she might need a conversation too. He chewed on that as he cut the rope. Talking certainly wasn’t a necessity — she’d be grateful no matter what — but he could understand it. He thought if he was Yolanda, taken advantage of and abused at his weakest, he’d probably want to hear something good too.

Something like, “I’m here for you. You’re not alone in this, okay? I got you.” This, he said to her face. He even looked her in the eyes. For a moment, he was trapped in the fear in them, in the pain. Her eyes were wet with tears and intense. She wasn’t going to look away, so he willed himself to break. He ripped the tape off before continuing his endeavor on the rope.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” immediately poured from Yolanda’s lips. Her voice was hoarse and hushed, yet powerful with emotion. Jason tried not to let her display get to him as the last string snapped. Yolanda’s grip on the beam barely supported her, apparently, because she stumbled forward. Jason wrapped an arm around her waist, carrying her weight.

 _“Police are here, if you didn’t hear the sirens,”_ Dick informed. _“Come on up.”_

Together, Jason and Yolanda ambled up the stairs into the living room and through the front door. Surrounding the house were more cop cars than Jason cared to count, sirens blaring and boys in blue milling about. One boy in blue stood out, black hair attractively messy as he ran gloved fingers through it. He stood speaking with a red-headed woman. She had a shiny badge attached to her crisp button-up.

“Yolanda Prim, this is Officer Young,” introduced a policeman. “I’m glad to see you.” He smiled at the two of them and squeezed Yolanda’s shoulder. She returned the smile. Some yards off, the red-head with the badge playfully shoved Nightwing’s emblazoned chest.

“Please, come with me to the ambulance,” Officer Young said to her. “Your parents are right over there. They’ll follow us to the hospital and we’ll make sure you’re taken care of. Okay?”

Yolanda nodded, but then turned to face Jason.

Dick was inching closer to that woman. Jason wanted to insert himself between them like a crowbar.

“Thank you,” Yolanda told Jason. His attention flickered back to her. This time, when she said thank you, she said it like a prayer; softly and in awe, without further expectation. Her eyes, still wet, slipped to the ground before climbing back up to Jason’s face. Then she leaned in and kissed him, right on the lips.

Behind her, Dick had that woman’s wrist in his palm. He kissed the inside of it.

Yolanda gently put her hands on Jason’s chest. Their mouths were no longer touching, and hers was done up in a shy grin. “Maybe I’ll see you on the streets, Robin,” she said.

Jason glanced again at Dick, but he focused in on Yolanda. “Maybe. Just make sure it’s through your bedroom window next time, alright? No wandering the streets past curfew anymore.”

Yolanda laughed. “You got a deal,” she agreed. Officer Young took her shoulder and they walked toward the ambulance.

Finally, Jason was able to keep watch on Dick. “Hey, Nightwing!” he yelled, jogging up to him and that woman. “Don’t get too cozy with the pigs. We got a city to protect!”

The officer turned at the sound of Jason’s voice. He stood beside Dick who was giving the woman a scharmy grin. “Well,” Dick said to her, “we can always use the help.”

Jason crossed his arms and glowered at the officer. “We really don’t,” he countered.

“Robin,” Dick warned.

“What?” Jason insisted. “We did this ourselves.”

The officer didn’t respond in defense. She must’ve been occupied with something said over the radio, because she held her hand to her earpiece. Dick and Jason watched her sigh heavily. “Unfortunately,” she began, weary, “the job’s not finished. My squad searched the whole house and it’s clear.”

Dick raised an eyebrow above his mask. “No perps?”

“Not a one,” she answered.

Jason’s heart sunk.

“Sergeant Brusier, by the way,” said the officer, sticking a hand out to Jason. He shook it half-heartedly. “It’s never a good feeling being the bearer of bad news. But hopefully you’ll realize we’re in this together.”

Behind them, someone called, “Serge!” The squad was emerging from the front door of the house now, weapons lowering as the colorful headlights of patrol cars lit their path outside.

“We need to fan out,” Sergeant Brusier ordered. “We know for a fact the unsubs were in the house when we got here. No cars have left the yard; they couldn’t have gotten far on foot. The dogs will sniff them out.”

The officer who had shouted for her didn’t disperse yet with the rest of the squad. Instead, he was eying Dick and Jason warily. “What about them?” he asked.

Sergeant Brusier tossed them a cursory glance. “They’re not our problem. We have more pressing matters than a couple of capes, Stephens. Start moving.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jason’s eyes were drawn to a patch of shadows just far away enough to be unfettered by all the glaring lights from law officials. He tilted his chin, trying to get a better look around the Sergeant.

“I’m afraid I have to cut this meeting short,” Sergeant Brusier apologized. Jason narrowed his eyes, briefly wishing he could take the mask off. It was fine, for the most part, except when he was straining to see. Then the extra material got irritating.

“Please, Serge, don’t let us hold you back,” said Dick.

There. Right near the wooden fence between neighbors was movement. Jason made out an arm being raised — it was holding something.

Jason’s hand shot out to push Brusier backwards as he knocked Dick to the ground with his shoulder. Brusier screamed in pain at the same time Jason felt the bullet tear into his arm. Two more shots rang out, followed by another cry that sounded like Yolanda.

By the time Jason had stood back up, Dick was bending the shooter’s arm behind his back, the gun abandoned on the grass. “Fucking idiot,” Jason spat, clutching his wound. _“Why?”_ He marched towards the perp, seething. “Why shoot _us?_ ”

“Robin,” Dick interrupted. Police were running towards them. Wordlessly, an officer pulled the perp out of Dick’s hold and cuffed him.

The perp stared Jason down. His jaw was screwed tight and his forehead was unusually large. “You’re stupid,” Jason insulted him. “A real neanderthal.”

“Robin,” repeated Dick.

Jason ignored him. His skin was hot with anger. He kept seeing the bullet hit Dick. It pissed him off. Of all the villains to try to take Nightwing down, this moron really thought _he’d_ be the one.

The arresting officer recited the Miranda rights as he carried the perpetrator away from Dick and Jason. “You have the right to remain a freaking shit-for-brains!” Jason quickly added.

A few feet from them, Sergeant Brusier was on her feet. She was clutching her arm the same as Jason.

“Robin,” Dick tried again.

Jason snapped. “What!” He whirled angrily towards him, but Dick was just smiling.

“That was fantastic,” Dick commended. “I don’t know where you got those reflexes from, but they’re something else.”

“Oh,” said Jason, heat draining from his face. “Uh, thanks.” There was a moment of silence, and then Jason remembered the other rounds that had been fired. His head whipped towards the cars. “Where’s Yolanda? Is she okay?”

Dick grimaced, obviously remembering her only now. The two of them shared a glance before jogging over to the center of activity. Jason dropped his hand from his arm and promptly hissed.

“There she is,” said Dick, pointing. “On the gurney.”

Jason’s breath caught in his throat. He ran after her. He pushed a cop out of his way, ignoring their condemnation to squeeze between medics. “Where is she hurt?” he demanded. He didn’t need to wait for an answer; bloodied bandages were wrapped around her stomach.

“The guy got her in the abdo-”

“Is she gonna be okay?”

Someone grabbed his shoulder and reeled him backwards. “A watched pot doesn’t boil,” Stephens advised.

Jason jerked out of his grasp. He followed the medics. “Listen, I need to know if she’s okay!”

Dick was the one who replied in lieu of the paramedics. “What you need is to have that arm looked at,” he said.

As if summoned, his arm began to hurt again. “I’ll live,” he muttered.

“And so might Yolanda,” said Dick. “But not because you stood here gushing blood and harassing the people trying to save her.”

Having been made acutely aware of the injury, it was hurting now more than before. He went back to clutching his arm. “You don’t know that,” he mumbled, despite the futility settling in. He sent a quick prayer to the Lord that Yolanda would heal.

“Come on, before the cops arrest us both for interference.” Dick gripped the nape of Jason’s neck and steered him towards the road.

“They could try,” Jason forced through his clenched teeth. His fingers were soaking in his blood. It hurt to touch and it hurt to let go.

Dick picked up the pace. “You have the right to remain a shit-for-brains,” he quoted, ducking Jason’s head like he was about to push him in the back of a cop car.

Around the corner would be the block Dick had parked his bike at. Jason was already imagining the nightmare that would be riding it with his jacked-up arm. Then a pair of headlights illuminated the gravel and Barbara Gordon’s mission car pulled up to the curb. Jason looked at Dick quizzically.

“Oracle’s car has a First Aid kit. My bike does not,” Dick explained. He opened the backdoor and — lo and behold — popped open the First Aid kit on the leather seat. Dick set to work on disinfecting and bandaging Jason’s arm.

“’s just a graze,” Jason excused.

“Could’ve been more if you hadn’t reacted when you did,” said Dick. His gaze locked in on Jason, trapping them together for a moment. Dick snipped the bandage and squeezed Jason’s shoulder meaningfully. “Hey. Thank you.”

Jason was taken by surprise when Dick leaned in and kissed the corner of his lips. Then Dick nodded towards the car and sat in the back, waving Jason to slide in with him. Jason closed the door and fastened his belt.

“Thanks, Babs,” said Dick.

Barbara Gordon winked at the two of them from the rearview mirror. “Anytime, boys.”

She pressed on the gas. Jason closed his head, laid his head back, and let the sirens gradually fade away.

The warmth, so close to his mouth, lingered.


	2. Whatever Remains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dick is 19 and Jason is 16.

The scariest sound in the world was a steady tick. Jason didn’t know how close the countdown was. Right now, he seemed to exist in a state between alive and dead, where time was simultaneously infinite and exhausted. He had reached negative integers.

His mom propped him against some hard surface. Maybe a wall or a box. “Stay here while I get the door,” she ordered. He obeyed, if only because he could barely move. His heart was pounding; he could feel his pulse in his ears, echoing off the walls of his body and knocking against his skull.

There was another tick. Jason lifted his head to see if his mom had opened the door yet. She was yanking on it, twisting furiously without avail. Jason scraped together the energy to ask what was wrong.

 _“The door!”_ she cried. “It’s locked!” She turned to him and Jason could see their deaths on her face. “The Joker locked us in here!” And that was it; they had reached zero. He knew it with cold finality.

There was one last thing he could do, so he did it. He used the endmost strength he had, because it was the last thing he’d ever do, to cover the distance between him and his mom.

“I got you,” he said. It was what he wanted to hear. “You’re not alone.”

The scariest sound in the world was a tick.

 

Jason thumped his head on the back of his seat. Again and again. He had stacked up quite the airborne mileage as Robin, but that had always been in Batman’s much faster private jet — and always with Bruce to talk to. Gotham Airlines had him cramped between strangers and his own boredom in the bland-beige interior of coach.

This wasn’t even his final flight. He still had a transfer lined up once he cleared the first eight hours. He was so tired of peanuts.

His mind got caught on the corner of that last thought. He was thinking about Dick Grayson now, as he often did, and about the time he saw Dick reach into the pocket of his sweatpants and dump a handful of peanuts into his mouth. Jason had made a face of disgust and Dick said something stupid, but good-stupid, like, “Did I ever tell you that my childhood best friend was an elephant? We would share these.”

Jason dug in his pocket and took out the tiny packet of airplane peanuts. He shook the bag; it made a crinkly noise. Tearing it up, he tossed a peanut on his tongue and tried to taste what Dick must taste. Probably nostalgia. Jason couldn’t fathom any other reason to enjoy this stuff.

He wished Dick was here with him. Jason would offer him his bag and complain about Bruce. He’d tell him that Bruce had fired Jason, too, just like he fired Dick. He would explain that he was going to find his birth mom, that her name started with an _S,_ and that he knew she had to be somewhere in the Middle East. And Dick would be a little jealous, but happy too, because Jason wasn’t an orphan anymore. He had a mom.

A voice crackled to life above his head. _“Attention, passengers, this is your pilot speaking. We are now beginning our descent. Please fasten your seatbelts if they aren’t already and fold your trays back up. We’ll be landing shortly.”_

Jason twisted his peanut packet and stuffed it back in his pockets. He was looking forward to stretching his legs.

 

Jason had mixed feelings about Ms. Woosan not being his mother. She looked a lot like him, for one, more than his actual mom ever did. And she fought like a god. There was no way any kid she had wouldn’t be destined for greatness. But there was something in her laugh when Batman asked, _“Have you ever had a baby?”_ that chilled Jason to the bone. She had thrown her head back and grinned in such delight that her teeth bared at the hot desert sun. Jason hadn’t expected such cold happiness.

So maybe it was for the best, Jason reflected in the passenger seat of Batman’s jeep. The ride was bumpy from the dirt roads, and there wasn’t much to look at honestly, but Jason was content. They were Batman and Robin again.

Still, Jason’s emotions knotted in the pit of his stomach. Sheila Haywood was the last on Jason’s list, which meant Jason’s best case scenario and worst case scenario had a 50/50 shot. Either she was the one Jason had been searching for, and he would as good as have two parents, or he’d forever be the bastard child from Park Row.

 _No way,_ Jason thought, Sheila _had_ to be his mom. His father wouldn’t just lose all contact with the woman who carried his son for the better part of a year. Sheila was _in_ that address book. She was the only _S_ that they hadn’t confronted yet.

“Hey,” said Jason, sitting up from his easy slouch. Batman titled his chin just enough to acknowledge he heard him. “How’s that Sherlock quote go?” he asked. “The one about eliminating possibilities?”

Batman faced ahead. Ethiopia enveloped them in the dried earth and frenetic pedestrians of the refugee camp. Somewhere, just minutes away, his mother was taking care of people. Just like Robin did.

Bruce’s voice was rough as gravel but soothed like a steamed towel: “‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’”

Jason nodded. A tingle started in his toes and jolted his shoulders. His body was a live-wire that sparked a smile on his face. This was it. This was really it! “B,” he said, and his tone actually managed to spin Bruce’s head towards him, “I’m going to meet my mom for the first time.”


	3. Partners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been a while since I updated this, so I guess I'll just put up what I had for this chapter. Not much editing went in, BUT tons of thanks to That_Veep for helping this chapter make sense in the story. It was a mess before their help.
> 
> Jason will be 19 and Dick 22 for the rest of the fic.

Jason had kept the pictures Talia gave him: the ones of Batman’s new Robin all done up in shiny red, minus the pixie boots; the candid shots of the Joker’s latest terrors; and, of course, the ones of Batman himself, same stern mouth pressed in a thin line and not a hint that he had lost something. 

You couldn’t lose what didn’t exist, Jason figured. Batman never avenged his death. He let the Joker continue his crimes, and so Jason became just another headstone in the Joker’s mass graveyard. Batman simply found himself another bird, another faceless boy in a mask to fight his endless war. 

Jason arranged these photos on the table in his shitty Gotham apartment. In a straight line, they were a testament to how his death hadn’t meant anything. Nothing changed because of him. Nothing was different after him. Jason would have to  _ make  _ his death mean something. He was given a second chance and he wasn’t going to squander it; it was more than any of Joker’s other victims got. 

He was staring at Robin’s picture, getting lost in thought like he often did from it, when a snippet from the box TV caught his attention. Jason set the picture down and turned his head towards the news. A woman in a beige suit sat at a desk. Beside her hovered a well-defined shot of a vigilante in less blue than Jason would have expected. 

_ “That’s right, Gothamites, your favorite smooth-talking ‘acro-bat’ is back in town. Nightwing, vigilante and Batman-associate, has been seen visiting Gotham for the first time in a long time.” _

More pictures of varying quality slid across the screen. Dick Grayson had barely crossed Jason’s mind since his resurrection; he had changed incredibly. He had done away with the circus fanfare and now wore tight-fitting black kevlar with bright blue stripes. His previously long hair now just reached his ears and was curlier for it. His shoulders had broadened and his brilliant grin had dimmed to a mischievous smirk. 

Jason slowly moved to the bed and sat down.

“ _ I’m sure Bludhaven is missing him, but Gotham has been having a field day. Trending now on Twitter is the hashtag #ISeeNightwing, in which Gotham citizens are flooding with their recent candids of our boy in blue.” _

Changed or not, it was undoubtedly Dick — same beautiful dark skin, same Hollywood jawline, same effortless gymnastics. Another picture appeared on screen of Nightwing perched on a construction beam, doing a peace sign down at the photographer. He was playful, not stoic like Batman and his latest child soldier. There was a consistent air of familiarity throughout his interactions with the cameras, as if he knew the person watching him, as if this was a joke between friends. 

None of Talia’s pictures featured Batman or Robin looking directly at the lens. The angles were always slightly above their heads, from behind or to the side of their bodies. The subject was unaware of their audience, ensuring the relationship was wholly one-sided. Jason could stare all he wanted, but the Bruce of those photos refused to look back — refused his audience altogether. He was rejecting Jason’s very existence.

These pictures of Dick, though, they were different. He knew someone was watching and he liked it,  _ invited  _ it even. It was okay for Jason to look. Dick, at least, wouldn’t ignore him.

The news segued into something else, so Jason got up and strode over to his laptop. He’d have to get a smartphone soon, since all Talia ever supplied were burners, but for now he was focused on getting by. He went straight to Twitter and checked out that Nightwing hashtag. 

Then he waited. He waited, and waited, and waited, all the while refreshing the page with increasingly frustrated tenacity. Most of the pictures were blurry or too dim to reveal landmarks. A few weren’t of Nightwing at all, but of random blue objects: a fire hydrant, a lottery ticket crumpled vaguely in the shape of a mutated bird, and, unexpectedly, several of pets in oversized domino masks. Jason was tempted to find something blue in his apartment and join in on the fun, but that would unnecessarily put him on the radar.

He was rewarded after two hours. Sandbag01 posted something distinctive. Nightwing was walking towards a group of nondescript men in a parking lot. Behind them was a crooked, rusted sign that just barely said  _ Jeff’s Auto Parts. _ Jason recognized it as part of downtown Gotham. 

He got dressed in a hurry. He tried to shake off the feeling that Talia was still breathing down his neck, but he found himself making excuses for what he was doing anyway. This wasn’t recreational. He would hardly call this a waste of time. Nightwing was an associate of Batman. He had information. Value. 

If anything, this was intel-gathering. 

Jason revved his bike. Excitement caught fire in his knuckles and shot flames up his arms. The tension made him grip the handlebars tighter. He was off like a bullet down the road. His time with Talia hadn’t erased an inch of Gotham from his mental map. He knew every turn to make. He recognized each dilapidated, antiquated building. The local businesses obviously hadn’t undergone many facelifts. Its sorry state came as a comfort; Gotham was a rare constant in his life. It was Jason’s city, irrevocably. 

Jeff’s Auto Parts was located in a rundown strip mall. Jason slowed to a cruise as he approached it, paying more attention to shadows and rooftops. He might’ve missed him, but it wasn’t like Nightwing to shirk babysitting duty before cops showed up. And they hadn’t yet, because the men from the picture were in disarray. A few looked unconscious, the ones not on ground were slumped against a wall, and all of them had been ziptied at the ankles and wrists. 

No police sirens, though? Had Nightwing not called them?

Jason drove closer to the herd of future convicts, pausing to talk to them. “I’m curious,” he said, addressing nobody in particular, “what the hell did ya’ guys do?” He swiveled his head around the parking lot, just in case there was some conveniently popped trunk full of evidence. He probably would’ve noticed that the first time if it existed.

Jason received a _ “fuck off”  _ and an irritated groan. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Still, though, did his reputation not precede him? “Screw a guy for trying to make friendly conversation,” he griped, pulling out his handgun. He pointed it at the feisty one. The shoulder maybe? Depending on what he was doing here, he might even warrant a shot to the kneecap.

“Whoa, whoa, dude!” the guy yelped. “It’s just some knockoff Ray-Bans and Miu-Mius!”

Jason lowered the gun. “Are you kidding me?” he asked. “Nightwing pummeled you for some  _ handbags?” _

“Check for yourself, man. Key’s right there.” The guy nodded at a keyring a few feet from Jason’s front wheel. “It’s the black Taurus.”

“A Ford? Seriously?” Jason said, dismounting from the bike and retrieving the keys. 

A third man, not the one who had cussed or the one who groaned, chimed in. “Yeah, a Ford. More people should buy American.”

Jason pressed a button and the trunk popped. He headed over. “Guessing it’s your car,” he replied. He lifted the lid up and, sure enough, knockoffs. They weren’t even neatly arranged, which was irksome; brands were mixing in the same boxes and sunglasses had been shoved haphazardly into the crevices. “These counterfeits American too?” he asked, adding a wry drawl to his tone. He thought if he ever decided to sell knockoffs in the trunk of his car, he’d be professional about it — presentation, and all that.

It was then that police sirens were whirring towards them. Damn, they were slow. He left the trunk open and tossed the keys into a pile of wrinkled scarves. “There’s a lesson to be learned in this,” he informed the men, getting back on his bike. “But I won’t spoil it for you, since you’ll need stuff to chew on in prison.” 

It was time for Jason to be on his merry way. He determined to circle the mall before leaving, just to be thorough, and he was rewarded. Nightwing hadn’t wandered far from the scene of the crime. Atop the roof of the neighboring Asian market, nestled in darkness, sat a figure with bright blue wings stamped across the chest. Legs dangled over the gutter. 

“Bingo,” Jason murmured. He slowed to a stop and steadied his foot on the ground. He watched in anticipation as Nightwing stood to his full height. Jason shouldn’t have been so surprised when, rather than jumping down, he ran. So Jason followed. 

They played cat and mouse for a good while. Jason had almost forgotten the point of coming here — as if all he wanted was to chase Nightwing endlessly — when Nightwing halted and jumped. He stuck the landing on the pavement and looked Jason dead in the eye.

The bike stopped shy of a foot from Nightwing. Jason flexed his fingers around the handlebar grips. 

“Hey, pal. You looking for me?” Nightwing asked. His shoulders rolled back and he took a step towards Jason.

And Jason, he just nodded. Everything about Dick was so perfect. His voice — smooth, not any louder or quieter than needed, politely curious — functioned like a bow tying up a gift. Jason imagined pulling a silken ribbon and watching it unravel in his fingers; that was what he wanted to do to Dick. 

“I guessed so,” replied Nightwing, which was almost too much for Jason to handle all at once. Seeing his face in a picture, then seeing him so close, and then _ hearing _ that  _ voice.  _ “There aren’t many normal, well-adjusted civilians in red masks trying to engage me in staring contests.”

“You saying I ain’t well-adjusted? That’s pretty presumptuous, coming from a guy in a catsuit chilling in a dark alley.” It was easy to respond to Dick. Jason couldn’t help but revel at the effortlessness of  _ them. _

Dick didn’t miss a beat. “Hey, ilk recognizes ilk. I’m not sure, though; should my next question be your name or why you were looking for me.”

“You don’t know me?” Jason was a little irritated at this idea.

Dick’s mouth formed an ‘o.’  _ “Should _ I?” He seemed entertained by Jason’s inquiry. 

“You will. It’s Red Hood.”

And then Dick’s lips pursed. Jason’s eye was drawn to the movement. He couldn’t take his gaze away even when Dick started to use them for words. “Forgive me for not realizing you were the infamous Hood. But what’s a drug lord want with  _ me?” _

“Lots of things,” Jason answered sincerely, eyes finally drifting down to Dick’s legs when he walked towards him. 

“Last I checked, you’ve got the GPD and Batman after you.  _ I’m _ not your problem.” Dick’s fingers slid to the escrima sticks at his sides.

“Oh, you are,” said Jason. He inhaled the smell of Dick’s sweat as he got closer.

Dick paused at the sound of Jason’s breath. “Why’s that? I don’t have a business card on me, but I’m Bludhaven’s guy. You’ve never been  _ my  _ problem.”

He was his problem before. “I am now,” said Jason. Dick grabbed his escrima stick, but Jason’s boot was on the gas in an instant. He whipped around Dick, circling him. 

Jason quickly jerked his bike towards Dick, forcing him to back up. When he did just that, Jason reached out for his fingers. He touched them — they were warm — and Dick wrenched his hand away. Jason held onto a slight pinch in the fabric; Dick’s glove came off. 

Jason balanced both his hands on the bike again. He spared no time in leaving. Beneath his hand, Dick’s glove was impossibly hot. 

 

It had been months since that their first reunion, but Jason kept in touch. He stayed in Gotham for the most part; it was the focal point of his interests and hobbies. There were bats to overthrow, clowns to kill, and drugs to pedal. The highlight of Gotham nights were when Nightwing would swing by on his golden tightrope and try to teach Red Hood a lesson about peace through fists. 

Jason taunted him. He would provoke Nightwing so their conversations became contact sports. On the occasions Nightwing was actually minding his own business in Bludhaven, Jason would follow him and let Hood’s underlings babysit the streets. He went to the effort of securing the apartment across from Dick’s. His living room window peered into Dick’s bedroom.

The apartment was shit and nothing like his high-rise condo in Gotham. The floors creaked and water damage had cracked the walls like dry earth. He cleaned as often as possible, but no amount of Febreeze or Lysol could mask the omnipresent stench of mildew and cobwebs that hung over the whole building.

As crap as the place was, it was his vacation spot. He let himself unwind here. Dick was out a lot, so Jason got to know Bludhaven through him. The two of them settled into easy routines: Dick would go to the BPD, then back home to catch sleep, and then would be back on his feet in kevlar at nightfall. 

Jason’s favorite time was late afternoon; Dick would leave his bedroom window open. A guy like Dick didn't leave windows open for just anyone; he was guarded, accustomed to unwanted attention from average criminals as a policeman, obsessed fans as a celebrity, and unhinged villains as a vigilante.

Dick didn't have to worry about that when Jason was in town. Jason kept careful watch, both of the street and their window. Dick’s apartment should be a place where he could rest, where he could feel comfortable doing things like — eating, flipping through case files, undressing, drying off from a shower, stretching, weightlifting, sleeping — the numerous pieces of his life he shared with Jason alone. 

Dick rarely invited guests inside. When he did, Jason made quick work of them. Nothing permanent — this wasn't his city, after all, and they didn't seem half as bad as the scum he dealt with — just enough to get the message across. Dick’s already few visitors dwindled.

This part of Bludhaven just wasn't safe with the Red Hood around.

It was 5:21 PM on a Tuesday when Dick got home. Jason straddled the chair by the window, camera already in hand. He increased the zoom until he could make out the bags beneath Dick’s eyes. It was too early for him to be tired; Jason wished he would get more sleep.

Jason would love to tell him this. He could cut the games and tell Dick how he felt. All the ways he had helped him — leaving BPD’s Most Wanted bound and gagged on their doorstep, taking care of villains that demanded too much of his time, running surveillance around the apartment so Dick didn't have to worry so much about keeping his identity a secret — and Dick would trust him enough to let Jason pick up some of the slack around the city. It didn't have to be just Nightwing; it could be the two of them, Nightwing and Red Hood, partners.

_ Partners _ .

“Partners,” Jason said aloud and adjusted the focus. Dick removed his white button-up. Pale scars peeked out from beneath his undershirt; Jason imagined tracing each one with his fingertips, then pressing his lips to the deepest wounds. Did Dick still feel them? No matter, Jason’s mouth would replace every mark someone else made on him. On his partner.

Dick went to the blinds. Jason snapped a picture right before Dick dropped them down. 

Jason reviewed the image: Dick’s hair was slicked back, but flyaway hairs gave away how busy he had been all day. His arm, poised by the blinds’ string, was well-defined and larger than it had been when they just kids trailing in the Batman’s shadow.

His eyes, beautiful blue, were almost looking at the camera. He had missed seeing Jason by an inch. That was a good thing, Jason told himself, because their game was too fun to give up on just yet. Even if he was looking forward to catching the mouse more every day that Dick looked past Jason by a mere inch.


	4. Mouser

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well. Look who once again forgot she was supposed to be writing this. Well, this chapter had been completed for quite a long time. Like, five months? Thankfully, I turned to the JayDick Discord chat for help and two stellar people stepped up to the plate. Many thanks for amurtinyburr12 and Luthien Luinwe for going above and beyond. I asked for a chapter's worth of beta'ing and you two gave me four!!
> 
> I'll be going back and editing the previous chapters, as well as editing the fifth and working on the sixth (and final) installment.
> 
> Thanks to anyone who hasn't gotten bored waiting around.

Jason had spent a lot of time thinking the past year. Thought had always been his domain; in his school days, he would look for alternate formulas to answer questions on his math homework. His English essays ran on longer than needed. He had the loudest voice in any class that touched upon philosophy. As Robin, he got to strategize how to take down real criminals rather than just thinking about how to sneak cup o’ noodles beneath the noses of bored corner store cashiers. He loved the books that challenged his values; loved even more the books that challenged society. After finishing a novel, he would lay on his back for hours, just thinking. 

But lately he had been doing a different kind of thinking. He thought about himself, why he did the things he did, what he stood for and how he made sense of the world. 

Because if Jason was being honest — and as Jason had realized after much thought, honesty was his best policy — the world made as much sense as the Looking-glass. A big-time drug lord had just gotten big enough to warrant the Red Hood’s attention. The interesting part, of course, was the shock of white bangs growing out of an otherwise black head of hair.

The vigilante in him had more pressing matters (Black Mask presented a greater threat to the public than Gabriel Rodriguez a hundred times over), but Jason’s high-rise apartment didn't pay its own bills. Competition in the market wasn't easy on the wallet, so Rodriguez had to go.

Jason gripped Rodriguez’s jaw in his fist, held that mobster’s face up like a mirror with his oddly-colored hair and heavy brows. Jason dipped his fingers in the puddle of blood on the kitchen floor and swiped his thumb around the mobster’s closed eyes. A smudgy domino mask developed. Then he wrote his message backwards across the forehead.

_?ohw sseuG _

Rodriguez had earned his place on a lot of people’s most wanted lists. It was to his detriment that he was on both the Red Hood’s and Nightwing’s. Correspondence tended to get creative between the two of them, what with never exchanging phone numbers, and no doubt Jason got a little carried away with Rodriguez’s termination because of it.

At any rate, Jason knew from tapping the Bat-clan’s radio that Nightwing was on his way. He needed to get out of here before the golden boy showed up. Jason rose to his feet. He frowned at the blood smeared on his gloves and looked around for a napkin. He grabbed a towel from the oven door and wiped them off before tossing the rag on the dirty tile.

“See you on the other side, Gabe. Eventually.” Jason offered a small salute and walked out of the house.

Jason didn't stray too far from the crime scene. Instead, he drove ten minutes down the road and found an empty auto parts parking lot to kill time in. It took a couple tries to get his lighter working; he’d have to buy a new one soon. He took long drags of his cigarette. Watched the night sky. Imagined what the stars looked like behind all the city lights and pollution. 

Nightwing’s voice came from above his head. “That's a nasty habit.” Dick was crouched on the roof of Gotham Auto. 

Jason glanced at the stub of his cigarette then back up at Dick. “I've got a few of those,” Jason agreed. 

Dick jumped down and covered the distance between them. His hair was pulled back in a modest ponytail that barely reached his nape. He would probably cut it soon, although the exact time was impossible to predict. Dick’s personal life lacked routine. This kept things interesting, but also made tracking him a bitch.

Dick turned his palm in a talkative gesture. “Loved what you did with Rodriguez, by the way. What do you call that? Performance art? Contemporary?”

Jason shrugged. “I was going for impressionism.”

“Right! Right!” Dick nodded vigorously. Then he placed his hands on his hips and licked his lips. “And, ah, what was the impression of? Freaking  _ psychotic _ ?”

Jason tucked his cigarette behind his ear. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he replied, “I was shooting for my likeness, but well, close enough. I gotta ask, Wing-ding, are you appreciative of the arts?”

“That was my guy,” Dick said. “Number one manufacturer in Bludhaven and I shut him down. I followed him here —”

“So what?” Jason interrupted. “You saying you've got dibs?”

“I'm saying that Gabriel Rodriguez didn't have to die. I was going to put him away and there would've been an entire gang resolved without any deaths.” 

“Consider it a gift.”

Dick’s expression was one of astonishment. “A  _ gift _ ? You murdered someone!”

Jason shifted his legs. He liked it when Dick got emotional. “I'm a good mouser,” he offered.

“You — what?” Dick faltered. “Like a cat?”

Jason wagged his finger. “Yeah, like that.”

Dick had no words for a moment. Every time he appeared he was going to say something, he closed his lips again. Until finally, he pointed at Jason angrily. “You stay away from my cases. In fact, stay away from me and anything that has to do with me. Fighting with you gets us absolutely nowhere, but so help me god, I want to beat the ever-loving shit out of you. If I see you again, I will  _ personally _ haul you to Arkham.” 

Dick finished his threat and stomped towards the building. 

“Hey!” Jason yelled. “ _ I _ live here, asshole! If you don't want to see me, maybe you should stick to your own city! Just an idea!”

Dick paused on top of the roof, his back facing Jason. For a second, it seemed he would say something back. But he just took a running leap into the darkness.


	5. Resurrected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Jellzu for helping me deep-clean this chapter.
> 
> I offer more apologies to everyone who has ever met me, but especially to Penta. I did not deserve this trade. I am sorry.
> 
> Hopefully chapter six will come out soon.....it's the one chapter I hadn't already written ahead of time, so. Oops. I really thought I would've written it by now.

**_From rags to riches to rags again: Is this seriously where Dick Grayson lives?!_ **

**__ **

_ Pentapoda.tumblr.com _

 

_ When billionaire dream boat Bruce Wayne said his eldest ward had found his own place to live, we scrambled to find out where Gotham’s teen heartthrob was residing. Alas, Dickie-Gray was nowhere to be found...until now, that is. Papa-papa-paparazzi spotted him in downtown Bludhaven (that’s about a half hour drive from Gotham, for my fellow homebodies out there — #reppinmycity), right outside a very un-Wayne apartment. _

_ _

_ Ever the charmer, Dick smiled for the camera (and straight at me #jk #OrAmI?) and waved. Behind him? Something-Apartments, which is...quaint. But certainly not the mansion our boy grew up in. But there’s no fooling us, not with those obvious Ray-Bans and perfect manners.  _

_ Could it be Dick is LIVING here? I mean, Kendrick Lamar told us to stay humble, but come on! If I was Bruce Wayne’s kid (and it’s a good thing I’m not, because I’d have to reconsider my celebrity to-do list), I wouldn’t be living there, let’s just say that. _

 

“Jason?”

Dick’s voice snapped Jason’s attention away from the clickbait tabloid pulled up on his phone. Dick stood before him; his posture was straight as a rail, but his eyes were wide and questioning. 

Jason’s fist tightened around his phone. He felt stupid now, coming to a bar he knew there was a good chance Dick would show up at. He had never been caught before — if anything, he fantasized about it — but that didn’t mean Dick was stupid. 

Jason was stupid. He was  _ sloppy. _

“You’re Jason, right?” Dick’s voice was just loud enough for Jason to make out; most of it was softened by uncertainty, or perhaps intimacy. Jason tried making sense of Dick’s expression, whether he even wanted Jason to be  _ Jason, _ but there were too many emotions in the slack of his jaw and curl of his brows to pinpoint any one feeling. His eyes were wet and drawn wide, bottom lip trembling. Jason couldn’t recall a single time someone had been this unguarded in front of him. He shifted minutely away from Dick, uncomfortable with the openness of his face. 

Jason locked his phone and dragged in a breath. He waved for Dick to take a seat on the stool next to his. “Before you launch your interrogation, it’s a long story and I don’t feel like telling it to the dude about to cry into my beer.”

Dick’s descent into the chair was better described as falling than actually sitting. He matched the dignity of a limp doll dropped from a child’s hand to the floor — and wasn’t that fitting? Dick _ was  _ doll-like, with his soft hair and smooth skin and amicable smile. Jason imagined curling around him in bed, dancing with him, moving his limbs where he wanted them to go and playing house. 

Dick weakly shook his head. “How?”

“Lazarus pit,” Jason replied. 

Dick’s head canted and he gazed at Jason, absolutely perplexed. “I repeat,  _ how? _ ”

“Long story, remember?”

Dick jolted forward. “Well, tell me it then. I mean, oh my god, Jason.  _ Jason.  _ It’s  _ you. _ ”

Jason gestured towards himself ceremoniously as if he was a new car Dick had won. “Me. Yay.”

Tears were escaping now. Dick wiped them away. “Who knows?” he inquired. 

Jason thought about this. Technically, everyone knew him as Red Hood. But he hadn’t gotten around to revealing his identity to anyone yet. That was the gameplan from the start, but. Dick had complicated things. “You’d be the first. Surprise!” Jason trilled.

Dick breathed in and looked around the bar. “We need to get out of here,” he said. “I’ll take you to my place. We can talk there.”

“That’s a conflict of interest,” Jason hedged; the idea of seeing Dick’s apartment from the  _ inside _ was enough to make his head spin, but he felt too unprepared. He pointed at his drink. “You see, my beer is here and your apartment is not-here.” Automatically, Jason prepared his excuse for knowing it was an apartment, but Dick didn’t pay heed to the word choice. 

“Excuse me?” Dick posed. “You’re dead for three years and you’re going to wave me off so you can drink — hold on,  _ you’re underage. _ ” Dick lowered his volume to a whisper at the last part. He glanced at the bartender, scandalized. “I thought I had cleaned this place up,” he muttered. 

Jason shrugged. “Death puts your priorities in perspective. You should try it,” he suggested, droll. He took an emphatic swig from the glass Dick was now pointing furiously at. 

Dick stared at him in disbelief before grabbing Jason’s mug from him. He downed the rest and tossed Jason his car keys. “I assume you have a license,” Dick said as he dismounted from the stool.

“I paid for that,” Jason griped.

Dick stormed out the door while Jason nostalgically followed. “Tough,” said Dick. “They should’ve carded you —” 

“They did; I have a fake —”

“And anyway, I clearly need a drink more than you do.” Outside, Dick turned around to face Jason. “How long have you been  _ back? _ ”

Jason licked his lips; Dick’s gaze fell heavily on him. It was not wholly undesirable, but the energy between them threatened to knock Jason to his knees. “You mean, how long have I been alive or how long have I been in New Jersey?”

“Alive? Both? I don’t know, just start  _ somewhere, _ ” Dick demanded.

Jason soaked in the silence, relishing the tension between them. Suited up or not, they stirred something in the air together. “Let’s start at your place,” he decided. He pushed toward the parking lot, only slowing his pace when he remembered he shouldn’t know what car to look for. Dick took them towards his beat-up Saturn, the vehicle he drove during civilian hours. He didn’t have as much of that Wayne money as the tabloids portrayed. Jason found himself liking that.

Jason sat down, his fingers tingling as they curved around the steering wheel. Dick’s cologne inundated the confined air. He felt a jolt when he turned on the ignition and the engine hummed. Dick was so damn close and he couldn’t help grinning at him. He pressed on the gas, fancying that this reunion meant something on a grand scale. Coming back to life gave a guy ideas about fate.

“Where to?” Jason asked.

Dick fed him directions he didn't need. It was strange to be in Dick’s presence without a mask. Since Jason’s return to Gotham, their identities had been mutually exclusive. Nightwing could know Red Hood, but Dick couldn’t know Jason. Now the two were dangerously close to merging and Jason wasn’t sure if this was what he wanted or not. The two of them in Dick’s car didn’t even feel real, as if this was another made-up scenario in his head. They were a distant concept, arms-length and safe, unattainable. 

From the passenger’s seat, Dick had made quick work of the silence. He didn’t address Jason directly, so it was obvious he was more thinking aloud than attempting conversation. Perhaps he was scared of what Jason would say if given the chance. That didn’t matter; Jason was content listening as Dick stammered half-sentences and composed them into a functional understanding of the situation. 

Dick would want an explanation. He would inspect every missing piece in Jason’s story until he had solved the puzzle of the resurrected robin. Then he would hand that puzzle over to Batman & Co., who together would take it apart and put it together again until he found something damning.

They were all guilty of invasion in that circle; when a bat knew someone, they owned them. They undid a person’s life and reassembled it to their liking. In Dick’s hands, Jason would become a rubix cube. He had to stay solid, keep his many faces in check, or Dick would turn him inside out — and then turn him over to Bruce.

_ Fat chance, _ Jason thought. He had been taken apart enough to last him this lifetime. He’d be damned if he gave any more of himself to Batman than he had as Robin. 

“Pull in here,” said Dick. Jason turned into the parking lot for Parkthorne Avenue, sparing a thought for his abandoned motorcycle before taking the keys out of the ignition. He’d probably have to Uber to that bar after this and get his bike back. Unlike in his fantasies, Jason wouldn’t be spending the night. 

“Thanks,” Dick replied automatically upon being handed his keys. They got out the car, Jason glancing up at the neighboring apartment’s window. If he hadn’t messed up and gone to that stupid bar, he would’ve been behind those blinds around now. Instead he was invited here; Dick  _ wanted _ him here. Giddiness bubbled over within him; he ignored the urge to let it out by whooping aloud or punching the hood of Dick’s shitty Saturn. He stoically allowed Dick to lead the way to his floor, who was currently raking his fingers through his hair and shaking his head. “Come on in,” Dick said as he opened the door.

Dick’s apartment looked like it had been ransacked by Goldilocks. Clothes were strewn over the stained loveseat. Framed paintings hung crooked on the walls; unframed paintings were merely propped against the dirty carpet and outdated wainscot. The bagless garbage can was overflowing with used tissues and coffee cups. There was no proper dining room because the living area and the kitchen were open concept. Said kitchen’s island was littered with pizza boxes, opened cereal boxes, and crumpled fast food bags. A Haly’s Circus promotional poster was tacked up by the fridge, its corners curling inwards. Dick had all the makings of a homemaker and none of a housekeeper. It was the exact opposite of the austerity that defined Jason’s quarters. 

They would make a good pair, probably — Jason’s structure and Dick’s warmth. Not that it mattered how compatible they were. Jason was nobody’s first choice, and a guy like Dick had options. 

Dick paused at the narrow hallway leading to his bedroom. “I’m — going to go to the bathroom real quick. Make yourself comfortable,” Dick excused himself. Jason watched him disappear into the door on the left and then gazed at the final room on the right side, its door wide open and light radiating from the window they shared. The dim hallway transformed into a darkened tunnel; Dick’s bedroom the light at the end. Its gravity swelled until it became a struggle not to march ahead and find out how the world looked from Dick’s half of their window. 

Jason thought better of it and grabbed his cellphone. Hurriedly, he snapped pictures of the apartment from every angle. He trailed behind the counter, peering into a giant mug that still had some coffee in it. If Dick would just let him, he could clean this place up.

He opened the refrigerator and decided he would buy groceries, too. He took a picture: three milk gallons, one almost empty, and a jar of green olives. The freezer had a frozen pizza and a dozen ice packs. “Guessing he doesn’t cook,” Jason murmured. 

He had a limited amount of time, though, before Dick’s interrogation began. Jason briefly considered just leaving, but he didn’t want to. Dick told him to make himself comfortable, so Jason sat down on the lesser-stained cushion of the loveseat. Probably just coffee or soda, those dark spots. Or blood. 

What would Jason’s story be? He heard the bathroom door opening — whatever the story, it had to be far from Red Hood’s while still dramatic enough to really sell the tragic resurrection of Robin. 

Dick emerged from the hallway and rounded the corner to sit beside Jason on the couch. He looked tired. “I’m trying,” Dick began, “to remember all the weird things that have happened in my life. Maybe I’ll think of something that’s crazy enough to make this — ” Dick gestured to Jason — “comparatively normal.”

“Any luck?”

Dick shrugged. “A crime-fighting ghost once said my dad would be proud of me.”

“Yeah. That’s pretty weird,” agreed Jason. “I’m a freaking zombie and I don’t believe that happened.”

Dick’s brows furrowed. “It happened,” he defended.

“Maybe while you were half-asleep. And dreaming. As in, you dreamt it because ghosts aren’t real.”

Dick snapped. “How are  _ you _ real?”

“I told you. I took a dunk in in Lazarus Pit.”

“Right, makes sense, because we conveniently buried you in Ghul’s bathtub.”

They weren’t going anywhere with this. Jason needed to level with him. If he acted sincere enough, Dick might even sympathize with him. “Listen,” Jason said, locking his gaze with Dick’s. “You want to know how I’m real, well, you can get in line.  _ I  _ don’t even know how I’m still breathing.” 

He scooted closer to Dick and concentrated on believing every lie about to come out of his mouth. “My first memory after — after what happened,” Jason glossed over his death; not for his benefit, but for Dick’s, “is waking up in a coffin. I was terrified, but I dug my way out. I found a shelter and crashed there for a little while until I could get on my feet.”

“And what?” Dick asked, doubt lining his face. “You’ve just been wandering Gotham ever since, and no one recognized you?”

Jason made a show of wincing. “Not quite. I made some friends there. We moved further south; cost of living is cheaper there. Not that we worried about rent much. Most months were spent in a van. We picked up small jobs so we could buy groceries. Sometimes, we’d find a slumlord who’d take us in. But we never stayed long in one place — none of us were keen on settling down. We dug the impermanence.

“Of course, we weren’t permanent either. The group got smaller. We went our separate ways. Most of them probably stayed down there. I headed back to Jersey,” concluded Jason. 

“Where in the south were you?” Dick questioned.  _ And so begins the interrogation,  _ Jason mused.

“Virginia. Both Carolinas. We were vagrants, Dickie.” Jason tested the nickname on his tongue; he liked it. 

“What were their names?”

“Hell if I can remember,” Jason hedged. 

“You can,” insisted Dick. “You were trained to remember the most minute details.”

“Yeah, I was also  _ killed, _ ” Jason reminded him unkindly. Dick didn’t flinch like he had hoped, but his mouth did straighten unpleasantly. Jason continued, “There are parts of my life I’m missing. Frankly, I like it like that.”

Dick flexed his fingers and shifted uncomfortably. Good. “I understand that, Jay,” Dick reasoned. Jason happily noted that Dick reciprocated the nickname. “But you can’t just — come back from the _ dead _ and expect me to go along with it.”

“Ever heard  _ ‘don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’ _ ?”

Dick’s lips tugged upwards. “Personally, I’m more familiar with  _ ‘if it sounds too good to be true.’” _

Jason scoffed. “What part of this is too good?”

Dick’s gaze was unshakeable. “All of it,” he whispered, so amazingly earnest.

Jason didn’t know what to say to that, but he knew he had to talk. Beautiful Dick Grayson who invited a dead guy to his home, who let him drive his car and was sitting less than a foot away and telling Jason exactly what he wanted to hear — what was there to say that was worthy of Dick Grayson? What did Dick want to hear?

Jason inhaled deeply and let it out in a heavy sigh. “Just give me time, Dick. I’ll tell you everything, but. I need  _ time. _ ”

Dick nodded and placed his hand on Jason’s knee. He had no idea how he was undoing Jason with this touch. “Then you got it, Lil’ Wing,” Dick promised. “Whatever you need, I’ll be here.”


End file.
